


incognito mode

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ace Michael, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Archival Assistant!Gerry, Canon-Typical Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Faceless Secretaries, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Like! technically., M/M, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, Trans Gerry, slow slow slow burn.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:29:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21565351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In which Gerry and Michael share an office space, and everyone's just got to deal with that.(Largely disparate oneshots written in response to prompts from tumblr, but follow a consistent timeline! Takes place pre-Spiral-hijacking-of-Michael's-body, post-Mary Keay's death. No spoilers as of yet past S3.)
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley
Comments: 33
Kudos: 177





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Please consider human assistant Michael and Gerry visiting to go on adventures with gertrude"

The new assistant is _weird._

Listen, Michael doesn’t want to be… _judgmental_ at the best of times. Especially working at a place like the Magnus Institute, which is objectively and subjectively full of absolute weirdos.

But… goths?

Somehow, that’s almost too much.

It wouldn’t be _so_ weird, Michael thinks to himself, if the guy didn’t keep _staring_ like he’s done something wrong. Michael doesn’t think he has, in any case – the only thing he’s been doing for the last half hour is sort through Gertrude’s paperwork, typing up reports and such. That’s what _both_ of them are supposed to be doing, actually, but the guy (Jerry, or Jarrod, or something?) doesn’t seem very preoccupied with work. Instead, he’s just been leaned back on his chair, tapping his fingers on the table as if waiting for something. 

Michael won’t judge. Out loud. He’s just a little unsettled by how much the guy is staring, is all.

Gertrude had given them a curt introduction, as Gertrude Robinson’s introductions are wont to be: “Michael, this is our new assistant, Gerard Keay. Gerard, this is our senior assistant, Michael Shelley–” Michael hadn’t been able to suppress a little smile of pride, Gerard’s eyes narrowed on it like a hawk zeroing in on a mouse “– please keep infighting to a minimum. Welcome to the Magnus Institute.”

Michael had tried offering a smile.

Gerard grunted.

So here they are now.

“Uh,” Michael starts. He keeps his eyes fixed on the typewriter before him. “D’you need help with the filing system? I know it’s - it can be a little rough, for newcomers.” He chuckles to himself, remembering how long it had taken to introduce Rosa to it. Even he’ll admit it’s a pretty unwieldy way to organize statements, he’s not sure why Gertrude introduced it in the first place, but – he’s sure she has her reasons. She trusts Michael, and so Michael trusts her.

Gerard looks at him flatly before responding with a definitive, “no.” And returning to his vow of silence.

Michael suppresses a sigh. “Um, okay then. Just… tell me if you need anything, then.”

A few minutes pass by in relative silence, save for Michael’s typing, and Gerard’s conspicuous lack of typing, before Michael’s curiosity gets the better of him, and he discreetly scoots his chair over to look at what exactly Gerard’s doing. He gets a glimpse into a notebook with some scrawled, near-illegible notes before Gerard snaps it shut and glares at him.

“What’s your _problem?_ ” Gerard snaps.

Michael holds up his hands in surrender, but a little indignation slips into his voice when he responds, “Hey, I was just - just curious, is all! You’re my new coworker, of course I’m going to want to know what uh,” he tries to find a phrase that isn’t ‘ _what you’re doing instead of work_ ’, “what you’re working on.”

“None of your business.” Gerard groans, slumping back in his seat. “I don’t even _want_ to be here.” Michael frowns.

“Then… why _are_ you here?”

He watches Gerard heave out a great, resigned sigh that speaks to many nights without sleep. Michael feels a twinge of sympathy. If _that’s_ where the grouchiness is coming from, he can definitely understand…

“I, uh, I kind of,” he makes a vague but very annoyed gesture, “have to be. Mostly on account of _family business_.” Then cracks an eye open to stare at Michael again. “Sorry for the attitude. Just…” He sighs heavily. “I don’t like being here. Feels unsafe.”

“Oh. I’m…” Michael goes to pat his shoulder, but Gerard jerks back with murder in his eyes, so his hand settles politely back into his lap. “Sorry. Did something happen in your last workplace?”

Gerard snorts. “Something like that.”

“Oh. Well, you don’t need to worry about anything like _that_ here..” Michael gestures around at their primarily beige-soaked office, the ancient wallpaper, the _typewriter_. “This is an archiving job first and foremost, so even though we’re working with, y’know, paranormal stuff, it’s really only secondhand to the experience? The weirdest thing you’re going to encounter here is probably, I don’t know, the coffee machine breaking…”

He falters. Gerard’s looking at him some kind of way, a combination of apprehension, mild bafflement, incredulity, and he’s… smirking? A little bit? But not in a sardonic way?

Michael swallows.

“ _Right_ ,” Gerard finally says, in a manner that suggests he absolutely does _not_ believe a thing Michael’s saying, but is humoring him. It’s a tone Michael is quite used to. He decides to take it over the sullen silence and shoots Gerard a smile.

“Come on, it’s not so bad here. If you want, I could introduce you to the other staff, show you around if you haven’t been before,” Michael continues. Gerard props his head on one hand, considering, and that’s when Michael notices the tattoos – wow. That’s a _lot_ of eyes. Is that a goth thing, too? Is Michael just really out of touch?

For the first time, Gerard mirrors his smile, though it’s a lot more hesitant (like he’s not used to doing it). “I think I’d like that,” he mumbles, then withdraws back into the silence he seems to be comfortable with.

Michael turns back to his typewriter. Gerard doesn’t need to be chatting him up 24/7, sometimes people are antisocial or just _don’t like talking_ and that’s alright, so long as he and Michael aren’t at each other’s throats, it’s fine. It might be nice having someone else in the office, Michael muses. Even if they aren’t actually doing work, you know, the presence of another person can help make the long days of filing go by quicker. Maybe even enjoyable.

“Oh, yeah. For the future –” Gerard coughs into his fist, perhaps trying to come off as casual. “I fuckin’ hate the name ‘Gerard’. Call me Gerry from now on.” He shifts uncomfortably. “If you want.”

Michael mouths the name to himself. ‘Gerry’. Then turns back and smiles.

“Alright,” he says, perking up when he sees Gerry almost sag with relief in his seat, before they both get back to work (well, ‘work’).

This is, Michael thinks to himself happily, the start of a beautiful ~~friendship~~ work relationship.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "HHHHH Michael's first encounter with a real monster and Gerry is there"

“Do you have the police reports for,” Michael squints at the scribbled label on his notes, “Statement 0070107?”

From the other corner of the office, Gerry’s voice rings: “Uh… that’s the Patel case, right? Hold on one second.”

There’s shuffling. The telltale sound of boxes being pushed around, then a muffled curse as one lands on a foot. Michael stifles a laugh behind his palm, though no one’s there to hear it.

Finally Gerry stumbles out of the back, looking substantially more crabby, a stack of papers clutched in one tattooed fist.

“You were right when you said this filing system is bullshit,” he grumbles before tossing them onto Michael’s desk with an exaggerated flourish. Michael emits a pleased ‘thank you’, smiling politely when Gerry glowers.

“It’s… unique,” Michael admits. “But hey, at least there’s an order to the numbers themselves. No randomness to deal with here.”

Gerry rolls his eyes. “I’d rather deal with dice rolls than this. You’re just weird and _like_ numbers.” Michael hums in the affirmative.

Three weeks have gone by since their first meeting. It’s a bit weird, having another person in his office space after so long working alone, but – it’s nice. It really is. Gerry seems to finally have warmed up to the concept of doing actual _work_ (though Michael still does most of the supplemental material for him), and getting through the piles of documents goes a lot quicker with two people. They’re not an especially chatty or efficient team, but it works.

Someone walks in through the door while Michael’s knelt over a box of old statements. Their heels clack loudly against the floor – probably Rosie? She brings them drinks every now and then, usually tea, just one of those nice little things that make Michael look forward to the day.

“Oh, hello,” says Michael absently. “Thanks for bringing the coffee over, could you put that on my desk? I’m - uh -a little preoccupied right now.”

A hand settles on his shoulder. Michael looks up in mild surprise, expecting it to be Rosie.

It’s not Rosie.

The best way Michael can describe the thing that isn’t Rosie is… unfinished. It has the general shape of a human being, but the details are off. It has five fingers, but no fingernails. It has a head full of hair, but it’s all the wrong texture. It has a blank, smooth disk of skin for a face.

Michael screams.

The secretary-thing lunges for him as he does, hand splaying to wrap around his throat with thick, stumpy fingers, knocking his head back against the desk. He’s stunned briefly, unable to perceive anything but a horrible pain where his skull had made contact – then he hears Gerry yell something about ‘fucking strangers’, followed by the loud _whump_ of a fist hitting something too heavy and too soft. The hand convulses around his throat, then relinquishes.

Michael’s eyes fly open. His head’s spinning, and his brain’s taking a while to catch up to where his body is, but there’s Gerry, standing over him wielding – is that a _bat?_ With _spikes?_ How’d he gotten _that_ past security – watching the Rosie-thing with a wide-eyed, grim look on his face.

“I… wha.. what the…” Michael tries to get to his feet, he really tries, but - nope. His legs aren’t having it. Something’s _wrong_ with the way that thing is moving. Feet don’t _bend_ that way.

Gerry, holding the bat out in front of him defensively, edges closer toward it. It swivels its head toward him, gurgling, and he cracks it on the side of its delicately styled head. The skin splinters like porcelain, revealing a thick gray substance, the secretary drops like a rock to the ground.

The secretary lets out a sound somewhere between a scream, and a click, and the word “ensemble” (for some reason?) and Gerry _kicks_ it. In the face. Well, where its face should be. The lack of features doesn’t seem to make it any less painful in any case, because its limbs start flailing like it’s being electrocuted.

Faster than Michael can blink, the creature scuttles out the open door and down the hallway. Michael watches it crawl on all fours up the wall, onto the ceiling, and disappear into a grate.

“Yeah, fucking stay out,” Gerry calls after it, giving the bat one last demonstrative swing. He’s out of breath, but he doesn’t… look all that surprised, all things considered? Certainly not as surprised as Michael would be? He watches Gerry let out a long, beleaguered sigh and rub his eyes, more resigned than anything else.

On the contrary, Michael’s panicking. Very much. He tries again to get to his feet, and this time succeeds, though only because he’s leaning on the table. His legs are shaking. There are papers are everywhere, oh God, he’d just been _organizing_ those.

His mild hyperventilating seems to alert Gerry to his presence. His eyes widen. “Oh, shit. Are you alright?” He takes a step toward Michael, who _attempts_ a smile, but it doesn’t come out quite right.

“Y… yeah, yeah, I’m - yeah, I’m okay. I think?” Michael squeaks, then admits, “it’s hard to breathe.”

 _Now_ Gerry looks panicked. “Uh. Damn. Wait, uh, just – sit down. For a little bit. Hold on.” He grabs Michael by the arm and jerks him to a nearby chair. He all but pushes Michael into the seat, where he lands with a small ‘oof’, then rushes into the back room. Michael can hear rummaging sounds.

Okay. Okay. Uh. Focus, Michael thinks. This is… this is a dream. A very weird, very _specific_ dream that has no right being so terrifying when it’s about his _Archiving job._ Wake up, Michael. (He considers slapping himself, but doesn’t.)

Gerry comes back in with a crinkled, half-empty bottle of water.

“This was all that was in my bag,” he mumbles, face apologetic, and shoves the thing into Michael’s hand. Michael blinks at it in confusion for a second.

“Well?” Gerry demands, voice taking on a standoffish edge. “Drink up. It’ll make you stop panicking.”

That sounds nice. Okay. Michael drinks. It helps, like, a little. Not very much. Doesn’t erase the memories of the faceless secretary what the _fuck_ was that, what the _fuck_ was that, but it gives him something solid to focus on. He lets out a long breath.

Gerry just… stands there with an awkward expression. He looks conflicted. Michael seriously considers asking him if they’re having some kind of collective hallucination, but is half-afraid Gerry will answer in the negative, because that’ll mean that _thing_ was real, and Michael can’t have that right now. He came into work today to do file organization.

“So,” Gerry starts. He glances at Michael again. Then looks away. Then lets out a loud ‘ _fuck_ ’ and groans at the ceiling, tangling a hand in his hair. “Why _now?_ Why now of all times, when there’s someone _else_ in the room? I fuckin’ hate explaining these things to people. Jesus.”

“Are you… talking to me?”

Gerry starts like he’s forgotten Michael was in the room, then says (a little sheepishly), “Um. No. Just –” He takes a deep breath. “I assume you want an explanation.”

“ _Yes????_ ” squeaks Michael at an embarrassing octave, wondering how much exactly Gerry _already knows_ about the faceless eldritch secretary.

“Okay, uh, I can see you do, stupid question. (Ah, Christ.)” He squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Can you keep some things secret?”

Michael stares at him, eyebrows quirked. “It… depends on the secret.”

“It’s for your own safety, it’s – listen. None of what I’m about to tell you leaves this Institute. If it does, _I will kill you._ ” It doesn’t sound menacing, exactly, because, well - it’s still Gerry, the guy he’s been drinking coffee and sharing lunch breaks with - but Michael can believe it. He nods, Gerry looks mildly surprised at the lack of reaction, but continues.

“What I’m about to tell you is… this is going to sound really, genuinely insane. I’m not going to lie. But it’s _true_ , and it’s kind of horrible, and… it’s mostly why I started at this Institute to begin with.”

“I believe you,” says Michael.

Gerry blinks. “I… haven’t told you anything yet.”

“Well, you _look_ like you’re expecting me to discount you. So I’m telling you right now.”

There’s a desperate gleam to Gerry’s eyes. It’s the same one Michael sees in statement givers, the ones who actually drag themselves all the way to the Institute’s front desk to tell anyone who’ll listen what’s happened to them – the look that says, _I’m not lying to you, but you’ll think I am. Please listen to me._ Michael leans forward. It’s not so different from taking a statement, he thinks, just without the recorders.

“Tell me what’s going on, Gerry.”

Gerry looks at him for a long second.

“All… all right.” Another deep breath, then he starts. “Remember when I told you I came here for ‘ _family business_?’”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "gerry and michael working late hours in the archive? getting to know each other while sleep deprived?"

FIVE DAYS AGO

“So,” Michael says carefully, trying to sound casual over the clacking of typewriter keys, “are you from around here?”

Clack. Clack. Clack. No indication Gerry even heard him.

“I’ve lived here for as long as I can remember,” Michael continues undeterred, used to non-responses. “Though, between two different households. I got to see a lot of the city that way.”

Clack. Clack. Clack.

“This job’s gotten me out of the neighborhood a lot, though. Sometimes even out of London.” He peers over. “Have you ever been out of London?”

Clack. Clack.

“Yeah.”

Clack. Clack.

Michael cheers internally. A _response_. “Oh, where to?”

“Don’t you have anything better to do than bother me?” asks Gerry flatly.

In response, Michael shrugs. “I work better when I’m talking. Helps me keep my mind off things.” For a few seconds he goes back to typing, then pipes up again: “So… are you interested in the paranormal?”

A pause. “You could call it a vested interest, yeah.”

“Hm.” Gerry does look like the kind of guy who’d be into that. What with the dark makeup, the goth fashion and whatnot. “Studying it, maybe?”

Gerry snorts. “Sorta. Not in any official capacity.”

“So a hobby?”

“Hah, more like inducted. Though I always liked horror as, you know, a genre.” He raises an eyebrow at Michael. “I look the part, unlike you, sweatervest.”

Michael frowns, adjusting his collar self-consciously. “I have my reasons.”

“Hey, I mean –” Gerry raises his hands. “You do look totally perfect for being the hypercompetent protagonist’s sidekick.”

“Hyper… you mean, _Gertrude_?” It’s rude, but Michael can’t help but scoff a little. Gertrude Robinson, the gritty, hardboiled lead of a dark and twisted noir. She’s old enough to be his _mother_.

Gerry narrows his eyes, intoning dramatically, “Old ladies are always smarter than you’d think.”

“I’ll be sure to tell you when I notice her apparent hypercompetent acts of defense against evil,” Michael laughs. “It’s a _filing job,_ Gerry, for Pete’s sake.”

He hears Gerry mutter something to himself sardonically, but just like that it’s already drowned out by the clicking of keys, and they lapse back into their previous silence. Michael doesn’t think much of it.

YESTERDAY

“Michael.”

Everything in Michael’s field of view briefly goes white as Gerry unceremoniously shoves a paper in it. “What the fuck does this word say?”

“Hm…” Michael goes cross-eyed trying to focus on it. “That says… ‘hereditary’, I believe.”

“Christ. I thought it said ‘hamburger’.” Gerry pushes his palms into his eyes and groans. “I need to fucking take a break, Michael. If I have to read another handwritten statement I’m gonna start burning them.”

Staring for the fifth time at the sentence he’s been desperately trying to read but has had no luck actually comprehending, Michael is, for once, inclined to agree. 

“Same here.” He gets to his feet, wincing when his back makes a disconcertingly loud pop. “Shall I make tea?” 

“When do you _not_ make tea,” Gerry replies, rolling his eyes with mock derision as Michael shuffles to the electric kettle. (It’s true, on late nights bordering on midnight like this, Michael’s first inclination is to reach for the chamomile. So sue him, it’s an ingrained habit.)

“With that attitude, you’re not getting any.”

“Noo, please. I need the caffeine.” Michael hears a long yawn from behind him, then an agitated ‘ _auuuuuugh’_ and the telltale _clunk_ of a head slamming on a desk.

Michael walks over and places the steaming mug next to Gerry’s head.

“I’m dying, Mike,” Gerry says, muffled.

Michael slides the mug closer. Gerry looks up to read the words NO. 1 ASSISTANT (SPONSORED BY FAIRCHILD AND CO.) emblazoned on the front.

“Fuck you,” he grumbles. Michael grins. Gerry takes the mug anyway and swigs the contents out of spite. Michael grins wider when he starts cursing as the still _very hot_ tea burns the roof of his mouth.

“You know, Gerry, I think we’re really starting to get along,” he hums, Gerry groaning beside him. “Though you _still_ haven’t told me much about you.”

“Do I look like a guy who likes to give information about myself? That’s how you get identity fraud. People steal credit card info that way.”

“Do _I_ look like an _identity thief_?” Michael bats his eyes innocently, Gerry snorts.

“You’re a sadist under that sweatervest, did you know that? Okay. Okay. If I tell you _one thing_ will you fuckin’ leave me alone for the rest of the night?”

Michael beams. “Yes!”

Gerry rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Okay. One time when I was a kid, I snuck a cat into my mum’s house without her noticing.”

“What!” From the little he’s heard of Gerry’s mom, that seems like an acrobatic feat.

“Yeah. I named it Biscuit. Cause you know, my naming schema sucks, I named _myself_ Gerry for fuck’s sake.” Michael chuckles. “It was a kitten more than a cat, and I saw it all the time on the street, just barreling at passerby and scratching at people’s ankles. It like, lived under an abandoned fruit stand. I liked its moxie.” Gerry crosses his arms, leaning back in his seat, deepset lines of exhaustion on his face.

“I didn’t know how to take care of a cat. I was an irresponsible little shit. But I wanted to give it a home, cause I got the feeling it had never really had a home, and I felt sorry for it.”

“And?”

“It scratched the shit out of my hand.”

Michael laughs. Gerry laughs with him, and it makes his chest flutter something light and airy.

“What happened after that?” he asks once the laughter’s died down.

“Huh?”

“What happened to your cat? Did your mother ever find out?”

Gerry’s face turns stony.

“I dunno,” he mutters, turning back to his papers, a dark look drifting over his face like a storm cloud. “Ran away, I guess.”

Michael doesn’t pry. He spends the rest of the evening trying to think of a story he could give back.

Michael isn’t an extraordinary person. He knows that. He’s pretty sure that’s half the reason why the Institute hired him in the first place – he’s good at keeping his head down, happily doing the menial white-collar work the rest of the world bemoans, not because he likes it, he’s just – he’s good at it. It’s something. And it’s not as if he leads an exciting life outside the workforce.

But he’s a person. He _likes_ things. He likes talking to people. He likes having… friends, when the circumstances allow. And the circumstances don’t allow often; corporate life doesn’t lend itself to having close interpersonal bonds at the best of times, not healthy ones, anyway. And Michael likesthis strange coworker.

He likes the spunk, the rudeness (to an extent), the complete lack of filter that kind of pervades the rest of Michael’s life when interacting with others, generally. A breath of fresh air. A manic pixie dream… goth? No, but Gerry isn’t like that either, he’s not some strange spritely Hallmark convention without flaws, no, he can be quite dumb. Michael knows this. He has proof.

And he likes that too. The flaws. The strangeness. It just means Gerry’s another odd, misshapen human. And unlike Michael, he seems to have a lot of stories to tell that are equally strange.

So Michael sits on that for a while. Trying to come up with some detail about himself that might be able to compete, but… two sleepless hours later, he finds himself devoid of any. 

He’ll come up with one sometime.

TWO DAYS AFTER THE INCIDENT (RE: FACELESS SECRETARY)

“I,” Michael inhales, then exhales, just like Gerry told him, hands clutched around the crumpled bottle of water. “I, uh.”

“Told you it’d sound crazy.”

“It – I – hmm.”

Gerry glances at him, almost angry-looking, but no, that’s not it – more apprehension. Expectance of rejection, a tried and true pattern of other people he’s tried to tell. Other people who’ve told him something along the lines of, ‘that’s crazy and so are you.’

Michael quickly resolves to not be one of those people.

“I… Okay, so…” Ridiculously, he finds himself craving a cup of tea. Must be hearing midnight, or maybe it’s just how ridiculously dry his throat feels. “Let me get it straight, just once. Monsters are real. Demonic books are real. Um, monsters that spawn from said demonic books are real. Also dark magic.”

Gerry makes a face. “They’re not demonic, but…” He shrugs and nods. “Yeah, that’s the gist.”

“And your mother was a dark wizard.”

“Oh, don’t say that. It makes her almost sound cool, it’ll get to her head.”

“It –” Michael was under the impression that Gerry’s mother was dead, but… Maybe not? He suddenly feels nervous about speaking so loud. “And you’re here mostly to research the spooky books. Plus Gertrude gave you her blessing to?”

“Mhm.” Gerry gestures at himself with a sardonic expression. “Ta da. All the personal info you could ever want.”

“A-ah.” Michael swallows. “I’d have hoped that we could have exchanged that under better circumstances.”

“There aren’t better circumstances. Not for me, at least.” He crosses his arms in what Michael’s starting to recognize as a defensive tic. “What did you expect from the town freak?”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t thinking _that_ ,” Michael frowns. “Gerry. I already told you I believe you.”

“Bet you regret meeting me though,” mutters Gerry insistently.

“No, I don’t, please don’t put words in my mouth.” Michael puts his hands together and inhales. “Listen. I’m a little shaken, sure. But I’m still your coworker. Just give me a… A day to recuperate, a few hours of sleep, and I’ll be in better shape to help you.” He tries for a smile. “Okay?”

Gerry ogles him like he’s just vomited up a fish or some similarly absurd thing. “Help… me?”

“Well, it must be hard doing it on your own. And Gertrude put us together for a reason, she knew we’d be a good team – though this is much different from document storage, of course – I think it might work, if you’re willing to have me.”

Gerry stares.

“I’m just here to help,” Michael says.

“…you’re…” Gerry shakes his head in disbelief. “Maybe you’re suited to work here after all. Christ.” He crosses his arms and ducks his head, the next words out of his mouth sotto voce. “..thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Michael checks his watch. “And considering it is now… two in the morning, would you like to help me clean up? I’m almost done with case 20071709.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "ooh!! hopping off your last gerrymichael; michael opens up about his traumatic experience with the spiral as a child?"

“And – and then she says, ‘it’s the _statement_ that’s incorrect, not the _Latin!_ Haha! Ahahaha!”

Gerry nearly spills his drink as Michael slumps against him, shaking with laughter, and definitely doesn’t blush at the fact.

Working at the Institute has its perks. Not many, but, y'know, some things make it bearable. Next to the building, there’s a bar that stays open past the insufferably late hours the Institute keeps them. There’s always nooks and crannies to duck into if he ever needs to do some snooping.

Michael’s there. Which, well. New development. A welcome one, but it’s… odd.

Gerry’s never been good at making friends. Never in his life. Not even when he was real young, before all the batshit elements of his current life really settled in. He’s especially not good at making friends with normal people — the ones who wear knitted cardigans and eat fat-free yogurt every day and grow up to name their kids things like ‘Debra’ or ‘Katie’ or ‘Sandra’. Y'know. Those.

Michael Shelley is the most normal person Gerry’s ever met, so it’s honestly astounding he’s willing to talk to Gerry at all. Much less… be friends with him. Especially not after the (inevitable) supernatural event, and having to explain the whole 14-fear extravaganza. That’s usually the dealbreaker. That’s usually when Gerry gets dropped like a hot potato.

Michael, instead, had listened with wide-eyed, keen interest, and just went on with his business like nothing happened.

And it’s weird. It’s really, really weird. Gerry sometimes genuinely wonders if he’s actually secretly some sort of… supernatural agent sent to infiltrate his life and kill him in his sleep, and if it would be a better course of action to take Michael out entirely and go on the run, but… but no, no matter how closely (ahem) he observes Michael’s routine, no matter how much Gerry scrutinizes, he’s never seen any side of Michael’s life that hasn’t been blandly pleasant boringness. The man’s like a living brick of tofu.

This is the first time he’s seen Michael drunk, though. As expected, the man’s a lightweight, and is giggling like a Looney Toon before Gerry’s even halfway to tipsy.

It had seemed like such a good idea, getting sloshed with a coworker. Gerry does it all the time on his own and it’s a blast (most of the time. Like a good sixty percent of the time.) so hey — why not invite your creepily normal coworker along? Then you can get to know him more deduce more information about your potential opponent and you even get to consume copious amounts of alcohol along the way.

But Gerry had made a huge mistake in his calculations. He hadn’t considered the factor of Michael being an exceedingly affectionate, and irritatingly cute, drunk. As well as a blabbermouth.

“In the end, though, the whole thing went up in flames, so it didn’t matter much.” Michael takes a swig from his beer glass.

“Shame,” hums Gerry, having absolutely no inkling what Michael’s been prattling on about, but content with hearing him talk nonetheless.

“Gerry,” Michael giggles, leaning heavily on a propped-up arm, “I’m drunk.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Uh, nominally, no.”

“Good… I can’t — can’t drive back by myself… I could call a cab, b-but —” he hiccups. “— don’t want to go home alone, in any case!”

Then Michael stops, and Gerry can nearly hear him rewind the sentence in his head. 

“Not a proposition!” He clarifies happily with a sloppy wink that takes several attempts (Gerry isn’t charmed. He so isn’t charmed).

“Wasn’t thinking it was.”

“Good, cos I don’t…” Michael trails off vacantly, blinking slowly in a way Gerry recognizes as the drunk-enough-to-start-getting-existential look. He gets to his feet abruptly, throwing some bills onto the counter before Michael can object before tugging Michael to his feet.

“You’ve had enough, I think. C'mon, I’ll drive you home.” Michael sags against him and Gerry staggers. “Where’s your car?”

Turns out, Michael lives in an exceedingly normal, exceedingly tiny second-floor apartment a twenty-minute drive away. (Is it the Web? The Buried? Gerry wants to assign a Fear to this, but honestly, the place just seems cramped and boring.) The walls are woefully undecorated, the furniture sparse. One lone, shriveled cactus sits upon a mostly-bare nightstand.

Michael looks like he’s about to pass out by the time Gerry lugs him up the stairs to his place, so once Gerry’s about to head off (after forcing Michael to drink a glass of water and pulling a blanket over him, because Gerry has at least some manners) he really doesn’t expect Michael to start talking again.

“I never told you, did I?” He’s curled up on a mattress, thankfully facing away from Gerry towards the wall. His voice is quiet and frighteningly opaque in a way that makes Gerry’s breath catch.

“I never told you why I started working here.”

“I… got the impression you thought it was just an archiving job,” says Gerry.

Michael hums. “That’s true. I did think — think so. For a while. Until all this happened. But — but I always did have… A suspicion… something was off.”

Gerry’s quiet. “Then why’d you come here?”

“I was looking for something.”

“What something?”

“Proof.”

“Of what?”

A long pause. “Proof that he existed.”

“…who?”

“Ryan Hawthorne.” Michael rolls onto his back, putting an arm over his eyes. “The — the doctors told me I was mad, they gave me th — the diagnosis, but I’m not! I’m not sch — schizophrenic. He existed.” Then he whispers again, fervently, as if trying to convince himself, “he existed.”

Gerry feels an uncomfortable lump settle in his throat. This feels like a moment he’s intruding on, something he’s not supposed to see. But Michael doesn’t want him to leave. Possibly. It’s hard to tell.

“I knew him in grade school. We were best friends for — for — since as long as I can remember. He had a scar on his face. From when we played in the woods, once, and he tripped and nearly took out his eye on — on a piece of scrap metal.” Michael chuckles loudly, mirthlessly. “We got into a lot of trouble for that one.

“One day, we were — he told me th — there was something he wanted me to see… Out near the lake where my mother’s house was, deep in the forest. I didn’t want to go. I wasn’t allowed to, my parents had prohibited me after the first incident, but — but he made it sound fun. He was always more of a rulebreaker than me.

"It had just rained and we were going out into some pretty dense brushes, with dirt paths that turned partially to sludge by the time we set foot on them. I remember the ground felt like it was clinging to my feet as I walked. He said… He said it would take only a little while to get there. But it took ages. I wondered if — if he had remembered it wrong or something, but I didn’t say it aloud… And then we reached the lake.

"From the moment I stepped in that clearing I felt something was — was off. I couldn’t put my finger on what. Until I realized, the — the water? On the lake? It was.. it was moving, but not in a natural way… I could see the briny depths swirling around and around in this massive, slow-moving whirlpool, and it had… Hundreds and hundreds of dead fish floating in it. All belly-up. Ryan didn’t even look twice at it. So I didn’t question it either.

"He led me to this — this gnarled, dead-looking weeping willow. It had no leaves. Not remarkable other than its astounding sense of ancientness. But — but as I looked, I realized, there was a door embedded into it.

"It didn’t make sense. Why was there a door? It was normal-sized. Yellow frame. Brass knob. But everything about where it was was just — disgustingly wrong. It made me feel sick, looking at it. I really wondered why Ryan didn’t think so either, but he seemed… Enthused about it. Gleeful. Like he’d been waiting ages to show me.

”'Go on,’ he said, gesturing to it, and… I think he… Wanted me to knock on it. He stared at me expectantly. Smiling.

“But I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I just stood there, frozen. I should have done it. I should have just knocked.

"Because instead, he pushed me aside and did it himself. And the — the doorknob turned, and it…

"God, that wasn’t a human. It couldn’t have been. It would have been convincing, from a distance, but I was up close, and… the eyes were wrong. God, it was all wrong, it was all wrong.

"It took Ryan instead of me. It took him because I was a — I was a coward, and couldn’t unfreeze myself enough to stop my best friend from — from being taken by that thing.” Michael sounds like he’s on the brink of tears, Gerry doesn’t know what’ll happen if he breaches that precipice. “And the worst part is no one believes he’s gone, because no one thinks he exists. It nearly got me institutionalized talking about him. So I stopped.”

Michael squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m such a coward. I joined this place because it dealt in supernatural things, maybe the thing that took Ryan too, but.. I don’t do the things you do. I don’t fight monsters. I run.” He turns his head toward Gerry. “That’s why you’re amazing, you know. You can… You can do something about them. You kill them. I can’t do anything. Sometimes I look at my hands and I don’t know what it’s — what it’s all for.” He lets out a shuddering breath.

“I’ve never talked about him to anyone. I was too scared. But you understand this, at least.” Michael rolls back onto his side. “I hope.”

A long silence stretches between the two.

“You’re wrong,” says Gerry, “I’m not as strong as you think I am. And you’re not a coward. And I believe you.”

Michael doesn’t respond.

“And you’re very brave for speaking about this to me. I won’t tell anyone.”

“…”

“I’m just surviving. Like you. When things like this happen to people they cope in different ways, they have to. That’s all you did. You kept quiet because otherwise people would hurt you, that’s not a deplorable action. That’s understandable.”

“…”

Michael is unmoving, breaths slow and even, and Gerry can’t tell whether or not he’s actually asleep. He sighs.

“Water helps with the hangover,” he says, “and Advil. For the morning after.” He pauses before ducking out of the room. “Good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Gerry leaves before he can look back at Michael again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt(s): "Are you still taking writing requests? If so... Michael and Gerry first kiss?" Either normal Michael or spiral Michael", and "human gerrymichael and patching up each other’s wounds trope?"

Let it be known right here and now that Gerry does _not_ have a crush, alright.

For starters, he doesn’t _do_ crushes. Romance has been completely out of the question for the longest time, what with his terrible occupation and even more terrible general life choices and pathetically small circle of people he talks to regularly – it’s just not something he’s thought about.

But if he _were_ to have a crush, it would _definitely_ be on someone other than Michael Shelley.

Anyone else.

Totally.

It’s not because Michael’s a _bad_ choice per se, but he’s not exactly Gerry’s first pick for _ideal date_. Michael is a nice guy. A super nice guy. Nice like how a block of tofu is nice. He just has nothing going on, and the things he _does_ get excited about are… well… not exciting.

(“I just don’t understand why you’re getting your pants in a twist over a dead language…”

“It’s history, Gerry! Language is a fundamental building block of society, and Latin’s one of the few remnants we have of an empire long gone. Isn’t that just _neat_ to you?”

“It’s… something.”)

They’re friends, Gerry supposes, to the usual extent Gerry can be friendly to a person (read: not very). Michael exhibits soft, persistent patience Gerry hasn’t been offered by many people in his life. He smiles at Gerry’s snark. Doesn’t engage when Gerry says something rude and inflammatory because it’s been an off day and he’s in a bad mood, and his default reaction is to take it out on someone cause he’s an idiot with a bad brain.

It’s unsettling. No one’s ever really stuck around with Gerry past this point, but Michael seems to genuinely… not mind all his bullshit. Which has to be bullshit in of itself, because why would anyone legitimately choose to be around Gerry after knowing what he is? You’d have to be stupid, or trying to glean something about the powers, or… or… something. Gerry’s not sure. But Michael isn’t stupid, absentminded as he can be, he’s just… a bit too trusting for his own good.

Besides, Michael doesn’t seem like the type of guy who’s particularly enamored with a love life or anything. He’s never mentioned seeing anyone. Gerry doesn’t know if Michael likes men or if he’s romantically inclined at all, but doesn’t care to ask (because that’s a weird question to ask to a coworker you absolutely don’t want to kiss). It doesn’t seem to matter much anyway. The only real commitment Michael seems to have is to the job and, for some ungodly reason, to Gertrude Robinson.

Ugh, Gertrude. If she wasn’t Gerry’s current employer he’d probably be trying his best to get halfway across the planet just to stay away from her. But nooo – it’s always “Gertrude did this” and “Gertrude did that” with Michael. He’s always so proud at the scraps of compliments about his work ethic she throws his way – load of bollocks, according to Gerry (not because he’s jealous of Michael’s attention, ew, he’s pretty sure what’s going on there is more of a… weird substitute parent thing, anyway). That woman knows things. Keeps a sharp, watchful eye on the both of them that Michael seems oblivious to. Gerry refuses to engage with her any more than he needs to. He’s had enough awful mother figures in his life.

He’s thought about asking sometimes – why Michael thinks so highly of her, why he’d pretty much drop everything to help her do the simplest things. But when he sees Michael coming back from her office rosy-cheeked with a proud grin on his face (and stacks of Gertrude’s paperwork in his hands), he always bites it down. No need to burst a man’s bubble, especially when it feels like the Institute’s dour and gloomy atmosphere threatens to crush both their spirits.

Gerry doesn’t think he knows Michael that well, but he’s starting to think maybe he knows more about Michael than most other people – possibly anyone else, actually. It sounds presumptuous, but Michael is kind of a lonely dude; he’s not the type to have tons of friends or be extremely outgoing or have a real social circle outside tentative coworkers. Gerry thought he was acting suspicious the first time Michael asked him to go drinking after work, but it honestly seems like Michael really did want to get close even after all the batshit monster stuff. Maybe because Gerry’s the only one available? But he didn’t have to.

Gerry doesn’t get it.

He’s gonna stick around, though, not gonna let the poor bastard be swallowed up by the Lonely. That’s why he’s been agreeing to daily hangouts. That’s definitely why they talk to each other pretty much every day.

Yeah.

…

Fuck.

Gerry’s definitely got a crush.

—

So here’s how it happens, across five months give or take from the faceless secretary incident.

Gertrude drops the act that this is a regular archiving job (though she keeps them on a regular payroll. Asshole.) and begins sending them on missions intermediately with regular desk work or filing statements. Most of the time she gives a name, a location – maybe one or two key faces to track down – and leaves it at that. She seems to trust that Gerry knows enough about this to keep himself and Michael afloat, which Gerry grudgingly appreciates.

Keeping in Gerry’s style, most of the errands she sends them on are either collecting or outright destroying Leitners. The latter option is only ever a last resort for books that are too strong and have fallen into the wrong hands, and need immediate dealing with. No one ever said Michael had to come along, technically, but he seems happy enough to.

(“Gerard, you’ll be going to upper Siberia to track down this alleged Leitner.”

“Ah — may I come with, Mrs. Robinson?”

“…yes, I suppose, why not. Try not to get yourself into too much trouble. And don’t die if you can help it.”)

Michael is annoying. He keeps rambling on about the sights and how lovely it all is out here, and Gerry just wants to grab his face and kiss him. (What the hell.) It’s cold as balls and the leather jacket, turns out, doesn’t do much of anything in negative-degree weather.

They’re on a boat, Gerry standing stubbornly at the front deck with his arms crossed, shivering violently. Then all of a sudden, something just envelops him, startling him so badly he nearly clocks whoever’s behind him in instinct, but— Michael smiles back at him, having wrapped a warm fur coat around Gerry’s shoulders, before walking away whistling. He doesn’t even look chilly.

Bastard, Gerry thinks.

The boat arrives in Siberia where they spend a couple hours on a wild goose chase following vague hints from statements until they find the abandoned cabin where the Leitner is. Probably People’s Church; most accounts involve stumbling through pitch darkness in some way.

Michael reads the statements aloud cheerfully and clearly. He seems to have a fondness for the ones that don’t go on digital — it gives him an excuse to use the archaic tape recorders, which Gerry just doesn’t understand the enthusiasm for, but all right.

(“Well, I enjoy them at least. It’s just got a wonderful sort of ambiance, doesn’t it?”

“I’m pretty sure that thing’s older than Gertrude.”

“Ha! Perhaps. Maybe it’s just being able to do audio recordings. I do hate working with the transcripts, the typefaces are murder on these eyes.”)

When they approach the cabin, Gerry takes the lead. No need to pick the lock. It’s so old and battered that a solid kick to the center makes the door swing open. This is where he’s in his prime — on the field, facing monsters head-on with wanton violence. If Gerry weren’t very stubbornly anti-Entity aligned, it might remind him of the Hunt, the thrill of the chase.

Michael, however, clearly isn’t as used to it as he is. He trails behind Gerry too slow, too cautious, unaware of what might be lurking behind. Gerry twists around just in time to see a cultist brandishing a sharp-looking object over Michael’s head, Michael giving him an oblivious smile.

Gerry’s able to lurch forward before the blow lands, grabbing Michael and yanking him out of the way. Michael stumbles, nearly toppling into Gerry’s arms before the latter drags them both to a safer distance. The axe crunches against the floorboards with a nasty crack.

Gerry sees the vague outline of a book against the cultist’s silhouette, clutched in the hand not being used for murder-axing. Taking a step back, the cultist flips open the book and begins to chant.

“Oh no you don't—” Gerry takes a running start and tackles the guy around the waist, knocking them both to the floor. The Leitner tumbles out of his hands and skitters towards Michael, who’s staring wide-eyed at the scuffling figures before him, face pale.

The cultist grabs for the axe but Gerry kicks it away, trying to pin him down. “Get the book! Get the fucking—” He’s cut off by a solid knock to the jaw that snaps his head backwards, feels one of his teeth crack.

That seems to spur Michael into action at least. He runs over to grab for the tome. The cultist curses in some language Gerry doesn’t know and shoves Gerry to the ground, leaving him winded and reeling. The man grabs the axe again and wields it over his head, ready to bring it down into Gerry’s skull. Gerry braces himself and winces.

Thwok.

There’s a heavy thud as the cultist falls over, unconscious, with an out-of-breath Michael standing over him with a very heavy tome of darkness in his hands.

Gerry stares incredulously.

“You said to get the book,” Michael has the audacity to crack, an almost sheepish grin on his face.

Oh, I might be in love, Gerry thinks.

All of a sudden there’s a horrible sound like stone sinking into flesh and Michael screams, crumpling forward. There’s a knife buried up to the hilt into his left shoulder. The cultist that stabbed him looks at Gerry wordlessly, almost taunting, daring him to try and respond.

And respond he does.

Gerry doesn’t have much memory of what happened after. Most of it is fragmented flashes of anger, white hot fury pulsing through him in time with his heartbeat. He must’ve busted out the shotgun, because by the time he’d dragged Michael out back onto the boat, he knows at least one of the cultists were dead on the floor at the others had scattered. 

The ferryman nearly bailed at the sight of him hauling a limp body over one shoulder, covered in blood that was not his own. (He doesn’t remember how that happened either.) Michael is unresponsive, the back of his shirt soaked through with blood, but thanks to the frantic response of the spare onboard medical team, he’s at the very least stable. Gerry’s the one who dresses the wound in the end, bandaging it with copious amounts of gauze, because unfortunately he has dubious experience in this area too. First aid isn’t fun to perform on others, much less oneself.

Once the worst of the bleeding has been stemmed and the injury is cleaned and patched up, there’s nothing to do but wait next to Michael’s bedside with a growing dread building in his gut.

The trip back will be very long. Gerry knows this. He spends most of it there, staring down at Michael’s pale face, because the world’s shrunk down to just the both of them now. It’s unsettling. He’s seen Michael asleep before, but it’s never looked like this — so corpselike. Gerry bites down the urge to put a hand on his chest to check if it’s rising and falling.

The radio on the nightstand crackles. “Gerard?”

Gerry picks it up, not taking his eyes off Michael’s prone form. “What.”

“Congratulations on getting the Leitner successfully,” says Gertrude, her voice warped by fizzling static over weak radio waves. “I knew you would be suited to the task.”

“Fuck you,” responds Gerry.

There’s a moment’s silence. “That’s no way to talk to a superior.”

“He got stabbed. He got stabbed and he nearly bled out because of you. You sent us on this mission to the middle of goddamn nowhere.”

“I believe Mr. Shelley volunteered himself,” Gertrude points out impassively. There’s a nonchalance to her voice that makes Gerry’s blood run cold, as if they’re pawns to be moved around a chessboard and she’s just decided to sacrifice one. “It’s not like I ever forced him to do anything for me.”

“You know he idolizes you? He thinks you’re so smart. And so frail,” Gerry sneers. “He thinks you’re a little helpless old granny who needs help, and all he wants is your damn attention.”

“Sounds to me like a problem of perspective.” She pauses seemingly to consider something, then follows up with: “Though I think there’s reason to believe your own feelings on the matter are coloring your perspective in general.“

“How can you say shit like that so easily?” Gerry murmurs, more to himself than Gertrude. “You really don’t care about him at all. Any of us. We’re just means to an end for you to stop other means to ends.”

Gertrude lets out a wry chuckle Gerry has never heard. It’s a sharp, bitter sound. “I don’t know why you think I don’t care about him. If I didn’t care, Gerard, I wouldn’t put in the work I do to keep this world safe, hm?” Static crackles as Gerry stares at Michael again, looking over his still hands, the near-imperceptible tic of his pulse. “You understand.”

Gerry buries his head in his hands. “You can’t let him die. You can’t let him just die like that. He doesn’t deserve to be hurt like you hurt people. Please.”

There’s no response but more faint static.

Right on cue, Michael lets out a soft groan and shifts in the cot.

“Gerry?” he calls out immediately, without even having opened his eyes.

Oh, thank Christ, Gerry thinks. I’m so glad you’re ok.

“Wake up, asshole,” is what Gerry’s mouth says, though he keeps his voice blunted and low-volume as to not startle him. Michael lets out another groan.

“My shoulder feels…” his face wrinkles. “Did I get stabbed?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh…” Michael looks around blearily, blinking slowly. “Did we get the…”

“For fuck's—” Gerry rolls his eyes. “—yes, we got it. Book secured or whatever. Is that really your biggest priority right now?”

“I mean…” Sheepish, Michael plays with a stray thread on his sweater. “It’s what we came out here for and all.”

“Don’t do anything like that again, you—” Gerry sputters as he tries to come up with an appropriately cutting insult that at the same time won’t genuinely hurt Michael’s feelings. He settles on, “You— you idiot.”

“What, get stabbed?” Michael looks genuinely confused. “That’s not my fault, is it?”

Gerry huffs. “You should’ve just gotten out of there.”

“I wasn’t just going to leave you.” The corners of Michael’s lips twist into a frown and Gerry’s stomach twists with it. “I thought… I thought we were a team.”

“We— we are,” amends Gerry, rubbing his arm self-consciously. Is that what this is? A team unit? He guesses it is. Now that he thinks about it, he and Michael have been working with each other for a while. At least what constitutes as a while for Gerry. Can’t really call himself a lone wolf anymore, he supposes.

“Then that means we need to stick together.” Michael makes a vague gesture. “It’s a big world out there full of things that want to get both of us. We… I think I need the help. And I’d be more than willing to help you, if you’d… let me.”

He looks up at Gerry with a hopeful expression. A hint of a familiar smile creeps back onto his face again, fond and warm.

Gerry takes the opportunity to close the distance and presses their lips together.

His hair spills into his eyes when he leans over, which is annoying, but at least it shields him from having to make eye contact as Michael makes a faintly surprised sound. Gerry’s pretty sure his face is red as anything considering how hard his heart’s beating — just because he’s expressing feelings now doesn’t mean he’s good at it.

It holds for maybe five seconds before he pulls away. Delightfully, Michael moves up to chase him before remembering his injury and settling back with a wince. Gerry can’t bear to look him in the eyes right now, but he’s… fairly sure it went well. Maybe. Gerry pretends to find something ultra fascinating about the floor.

“Wow!” Michael chirps after a while. He’s beaming, cheeks dusted pink.

Swallowing, Gerry scratches his neck. “Yeah… ‘wow.’” He hesitates. “I’ve been meaning to do that for a while now, but maybe it isn’t the best time. Considering, uh, the post-stabbing. So if that wasn’t alright we can just—”

“Can we go out for tea sometime?” Michael interrupts. Then pauses. “When we get back to London, I mean.”

Gerry sits there in stunned silence.

“I know a nice place. Lovely pastries too.”

He shakes his head, trying to remember how words work. “I— uh— yeah. Yeah, sure. If you’re okay with that.”

“Excellent.” Michael nods. “Also if you could lean down again, that would be very nice. I can’t very well lift my head up, can I?”

“Um— yeah. Yeah! Yes.” Only mostly dumbfounded, Gerry starts leaning back in but pauses midway, realizing something. “Just a sec.” He takes the radio on the nightstand and smashes it to the ground, where it breaks into pieces with a satisfying crunch.

Michael stares at him, eyebrows raised. “That was our only communication with Gertrude out here..”

“Yeah, I know,” Gerry says, already swooping back in to kiss Michael again. Gertrude can wait and so can the Institute. Just for once, Gerry is going to take something he wants when he wants it, and have something he’s told himself over and over he can’t have. It’s indulgence, perhaps, and they’ll have to return to their regular duties eventually, but if Gerry’s got control of nothing else, it’s the time spent on the person he wants.

They can stay like this for a little while and it might just be enough.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the calm before the storm

Gerry’s definitely going soft, because he’s started going on date nights.

Every Wednesday, (“Because it’s in the middle of the week,” Michael had hummed, “you’ll have something to look forward to. But it won’t overload you on Fridays, because Fridays are for doing nothing.”) usually at the same place every time. A little nook-and-cranny place on a street corner that makes absolutely serviceable Tikka Masala and mediocre appetizers— hell, they’re usually at the same table.

He never used to be a creature of routine. Used to fancy himself allergic to it, in the peak of his rebellious years (he’s still a rebel, and punk as fuck, but it’s hard to keep going on like this when he’s in his thirties and getting back pains.) until he got the damned office job (that’s what the Institute is, in the end. A glorified office job with some ghosts thrown in.)

He’s disgusted to report that he… rather enjoys it, actually.

But only the parts with Michael. Most parts are the same old drudgery but Michael makes things not-terrible by default. And Michael is most definitely a man of routine— he owns a timetable, has a little spiral-bound notebook where he marks down every single thing he has to do today, and one time Gerry looked in his closet to find he had three identical copies of the same sweatervest (apparently on sale at Goodwill). Michael’s the kind of guy who could spend every day of eternity living the same way down to the minute and be happy.

And good Lord, Gerry hates the idea but he thinks he’s starting to get drawn into it. It’s… nice, knowing when they’re going to get off of work, because Michael lets him hold his hand when they ride the tube together. It’s nice curling up next to Michael to watch some bland but pleasant television program (and actually spend the time mostly looking at Michael), nice standing outside Michael’s flat and receiving a kiss goodnight.

Repetition drives Gerry crazy, but being with Michael isn’t… Like that. It’s grounding. It’s a small patch of normalcy in the hell that is Gerry’s life, and he almost doesn’t know what to do with it.

Sometimes the routine is broken up by moments of wild, frenzied action, and Gerry can’t help but live for those too. Occasionally a monster will show its face in public. A careless move to claim a victim, too bold, too busy chasing prey to realize there’s another predator on its trail.

Gerry likes to think of it like that, a food chain— monsters kill people and Gerry kills monsters, and that’s the natural order.

He knows one day, a monster will probably end up killing him, hell, maybe even a human (the borders are fuzzy; as the Fears tighten their grip, humanity begins simply slipping through the fingers) but in the moment, Gerry is doing the thing he’s been doing for three decades. He’s in his element. For a brief flash he has power, control over something, and he chases that high for all it’s worth. It’s not very heroic, but Gerry isn’t exactly the type to hide the unscrupulous shades of himself.

But the more he thinks about it, the more he remembers it used to be his only source of control. His only outlet. He was so angry, mindblowingly angry as a teenager. It was a time of scrabbling around in the dark, searching for a direction, wondering why everything he did seemed to amount to the manipulations of some greater power toying with his life— the basic apex of adolescence, really.

He always intended to burn those Leitners because they were wrong, and terrible, and should not exist in the world, but honestly, they were also an easy target for his aggression. Something to chase when everything else, whether that be the cloying demands of his mother or the frustrating disconnect of the rest of humanity, seemed meaningless. It’s been a long, long time since Gerry’s had anything else to focus on.

And he wants to be better for Michael, honestly.

He wants to.

Hence, date night. Mostly it consists of getting dinner at the corner place, then walking around in the comforting sheen of evening (usually talking about animals), watching the world pass by at a park bench.

Gerry does sometimes allow himself to wonder if he could live forever like this. Probably not, he thinks, but it’d get him pretty damn far.

“You look lost in thought,” says Michael over the menu they’ve both studied dozens of times (and always picked the same thing).

“Me? I never think,” Gerry responds with a wry grimace. He’s working on those too, smiles. Also not used to dishing those out.

Michael giggles. It’s a soft, bubbly sound, and it makes Gerry’s heart shudder in its ribcage like a physical indicator of I’m gay, shit.

“Penny for your thoughts then?”

“Mm, I don’t know. It’s kind of boring. And difficult to put into words, I guess.”

Michael hums. “Well, you can take your time if you need it.” He turns a page of the menu. The only times Gerry’s been told that kind of thing and felt not condescended to has been with Michael, he doesn’t know how Michael does it.

It does actually take him, a little embarrassingly, about nine and a half minutes to formulate the words, then put them in order, then hype himself up enough to actually force them out. Michael is unendingly patient with him, but it still makes Gerry feel horrendously awkward sometimes.

They’re trying to work through it step by step, starting with Michael explaining the whole RSD thing and having it click, oh, well, that’s why it feels like I’m physically on fire when I say the wrong thing and think people hate me for it. Michael has dozens of systems and rhetorics for these things. He has mantras and exercises and reminders up the wazoo, apparently to keep the rampant cocktail of depression, anxiety and ADHD in check— Gerry remembers he’d been surprised at that, because Michael just seemed so organized, he’d had no idea. (Michael had smiled and asked, “why do you think I need all the organization?”)

It’s a process. Gerry’s trying to let himself open up a little, slowly, but most of the time he’s happy to let Michael ramble on about whatever. The man has a lot of words in him and Gerry gets the feeling he hasn’t had the opportunity to let loose with them often, because it’s like a storm gate opening whenever he does. 

But it’s his turn. He dug his own grave this time, so he takes a deep breath.

“Remember when you told me about those, uh, grounding techniques?”

Michael nods, eyes soft and bright, and Gerry wonders why the universe decided he could have this.

“I was thinking about it earlier. The whole concept of grounding yourself, taking in the world around you, and, and, uh… keeping yourself in your own skin.”

(And then again, it’s clear Gerry’s mental shit runs deeper than Michael’s in a lot of ways, embedded in him for years longer. He refuses to use the word post-traumatic. He knows he’s traumatized but that doesn’t mean he likes to admit it.)

“Well, it got me thinking,” continues Gerry, “how long I spent kind of out of my body, you know? Detached from myself. I don’t know. It kind of hit me, like, hell, I’m more fucked up than I realized.”

He sighs and leans back in his seat. “But it also made me realize it’s the first time I want to, you know… Get better.”

Michael smiles. “That’s good.”

Gerry wants to kiss him. “It’s really hard to think about having a future when you… Grow up the way I did. I learned a lot of things I shouldn’t have when I was a kid. So I guess I just assumed I wouldn’t. Get a future, that is.

"But you know, having this, having you and our routines and the schedule you helped set me up and the breathing techniques you taught me for when it all goes to shit and,” he pauses, nose wrinkles then mutters under his breath, “no, the Institute doesn’t get any credit in this, half my problems would be gone if it didn’t exist.” Then softens, uncrosses his arms. “But seeing you every day. It helps.”

Michael’s face is a combination of things Gerry has a hard time trying to unpack, but he’s misty-eyed and his cheeks are going a pleasant shade of pink, so he’s choosing to interpret it as good.

“I’m glad,” he says, very quietly. “I love to see you recover. You really deserve to have a bright spot in your life after everything.”

Gerry lets out a long breath. “The future is so fucking terrifying. I keep thinking about the ways you or I might die.” He takes Michael’s hand, squeezes it tight. “This helps.”

“I’m glad.”

“I made my own doctor’s appointment yesterday.”

“I’m proud of you.”


End file.
